Preacher Man
by Her Madjesty
Summary: "Will you be coming back anytime soon, preacher man?" she asked him, almost like she was challenging him. Young Emma gets a visit from a mysterious, one-handed pastor. For the Tumblr prompt 'Jail Cells' and featuring my take on Pastor/Priest!Killian. Characters not mine.


The prison must have a fancy with egg-shell paint, Emma thought to herself, her arms wrapped around herself in a vain attempt to keep herself safe as she walked through the halls of the reform center she now called home. The Arizona heat seeped through the walls and warmed the halls just enough to make it uncomfortable, as the dribbling of sweat indicated on her forehead. No emotion seemed to echo across those disgustingly bare walls, she thought. It was perfect, really: a blank canvas waiting for all sorts of stories to be painted across it, willingly or not.

The guilt and anger that seized her heart flared as she was led with the others to the prison yard. Hers was not a story that would go there willingly.

It was no surprise that she had ended up here, really. "From orphanage, to foster care, to prison." She mused, muttering to herself as she walked past the razor wire gate and into the bleak yard before her. "You fit right into the mold they set for you, didn't you?"

The other inmates settled themselves amongst the yard, some staring up into the glaring sunlight and taking in what little fresh air they could whilst others lay listlessly on the browning grass.

Television glamorized prison life, Emma thought, as she moved to the edge of the yard. She walked by the electric fence that held them all in check, peering out into the wide world beyond it. This 'reform center' wasn't anything like she had expected. The tedium of the days kept her mind dull and foggy, and the loneliness that consumed her did nothing to ease the pain she felt when she thought of _him_.

The growing swell of her stomach didn't help, either, but she would rub it affectionately, cooing to the child some false stories or gossip she heard in the halls.

She stared up into the sunlight, closing her eyes and inhaling deeply. The air never changed around here: the smells of wilderness and wood mixing with stale plaster and sweat. She crinkled her nose, not disgusted, but not surprised.

Perhaps that was the point of prisons: to place the offenders in a timeless existence left only with the memories of their sins and bare, pointless hopes for tomorrows.

"5 more minutes honey." A guard had arrived at her shoulder and was patting it gently. "Then it's back inside for ya." Emma nodded but didn't respond, and the guard departed, looking over her shoulder to throw the girl a pitying glance.

She looked another deep breath of the air around her, a silent prayer escaping her thoughts as she started her walk back to the doors that enclosed her for the next year.

She hoped Neal was suffering as much as she was, she thought smugly, as the guard gently guided her back into the over-warmed place she was now forced to remain.

XXX

The cell door clinked shut, and Emma winced, moving to lay back down on her cot by the window. The small space held little comfort and the walls laughed at her, she knew it, mocking her child-like faith in a man who had fooled her.

Her eyes started to glaze over as she stared out the window, not wanting to think, not wanting to move.

XXX

The young man who entered the prison that day was greeted with surprise, but gratitude when he arrived. His blue eyes shined with an unbroken light, his skin tanned slightly from the harsh Arizonian sun. The guards took him in and he went through the procedures just as any other visitor would, of course, but there seemed to be a special attention paid to this one.

There was talk, when he had first approached the reform center, of just how trustworthy this character was. He claimed to be a pastor, making it his mission to reach out to those who had 'lost their way'. The staff had wondered how the inmates would react to the strange, evangelistic man who, strangely, had only one hand.

His charismatic smile had lured them all in, though, and his heart had shown with all the grace he proclaimed. But the stub that rested at his side made the staff wary.

"We are not really prison, you know." His veteran escort told him as they left the entrance of the reform center together. She had been giving him a once over for the past several minutes, nervously peering at the handless arm. He smiled graciously and ignored her gawking, but coughed softly and shifted the arm out of sight.

She blushed a crimson shade. "My apologies." She told him. "I didn't mean too—" "No matter." He smiled down at her. "It's nothing I'm not used to."

The woman was flustered by the time they approached the door leading to the cells. She gave the man another nervous look, resting her hand on the door knob. "These people have made a lot of mistakes in their life." She told him. "I'm sure you could guess that. We're just here to help them before they get any worse." Her expression turned stern, as though she suspected that this man would spew venom on those waiting inside.

"I understand that well." The man reassured her, his eyes betraying no dishonesty in his statement. "I'm here to help them, too, love. Just in a different way."

The woman looked at him blankly for a moment, then opened the door to the hall and led him through.

Together they went from room to room, cell to cell, and the young man sat and spoke to each inmate, sometimes for 2 minutes, sometimes for more. His voice was soft and comforting, and the women loved him in an instant; the men clapped him on the shoulder and told him he was a "Good lad". The Irish lilt enchanted anyone who spoke to him, and even those who disagreed with what he told them left feeling better than before he had come.

When the man and his escort approached the final cell after many hours of walking, there was a keen sense of purpose, despite the overwhelming exhaustion that the guard felt coming over her. The young man had not tired once during this endeavor, seeming to run on some infinite energy.

"This one is sort of special." The woman told the man as they approached the door together. "She came in very recently; a good girl, really, set up by her boyfriend." The guard leaned in to whisper softly in the young man's ear. "She's pregnant as well." The woman clucked her tongue and went to lean against the wall across from the door.

"Take care of her." She told the young man.

"I will do my absolute best." The soft answer echoed through the halls as the man entered the cell of the broken woman-child.

XXX

The woman in the cell looked up at him through hazy eyes, and he nearly took a step back in shock as he entered. He closed the door behind him as softly as he could, moving to sit before her. The woman's gaze seemed to clear as she registered his presence, and she lifted her head, long blonde hair splayed across her shoulders like a river of gold, and broken gray-green eyes staring up at him with a mixture of suspicion and fear.

"Who are you?" she asked, her voice quiet and strong.

"My name is Killian Jones." He told her softly. "I'm here to talk to you."

"I didn't think you were here because you deserved to be, Killian." The woman put an emphasis on his name, dry sarcasm leaking into her voice. "You're too pretty to lock up; all the women would be in love with you in a minute."

Killian laughed at her comment, watching her expression melt in confusion. "Witty, aren't you, love?" he said, pearly white teeth grinning at her. She cracked a smile in return, but he saw that it was half-hearted, and decided to begin.

"I've been here all day," he told her. "Talking to everyone in the building about why they are here, what they did." He paused. "Some call me a prison evangelist."

He saw the girl's jaw clench, her stance becoming increasingly uncomfortable. "You don't have to believe what I believe to talk to me." He reassured her softly.

Emma hesitated, newly constructed walls mixing with old distrusts of the religious folk rearing in her head. "I'll talk." She heard herself say, unaware of her mouth forming the words. "But I don't necessarily want to be preached at."

Killian chuckled again, and Emma looked on, surprised.

"What's your name, love?" he asked her.

"Emma."

"Emma," he rolled the name over in his mouth, and the girl shifted uncomfortably. "It's a pleasure to meet you." He told her, holding out his hand to shake hers. Her timid white hand pressed into his warmer one and they shook, staring at each other. Killian's eyes filled with amusement at her uncertainty.

Emma's eyes widened when she spotted the hand that was missing. Killian sensed her tension immediately and pulled out of the handshake, holding up the stub for her to see. She peered at it curiously for a moment, before turning back to look at him.

"What happened?" she asked, uncertainty melting in curiosity and concern.

"To tell you shortly, love," he started, blue eyes shining. "I grew up with a mother in prison and a father who didn't care enough to take care of his only son." The honestly in his voice compelled Emma to listen, but she felt her heart clench with misgivings.

"My father was a drunk." Killian told her, shifting to hide his left arm again. "He says it was an accident." The pastor told her, a hint of darkness entering into his tone. Emma's eyes welled with pity, her mouth simpering in an unspoken apology.

"But that argument is long past." Killian told her, getting lost in his own recollection. "I forgave him a long time ago, but when it happened, I left the house and moved in with some relatives I didn't know very well." Killian paused to look at the girl before continuing. "They invited me to the church, and I just felt called."

"I met my mother a few years later." He told her. "She was a wonderful lady who had made some poor decisions." He said. "She told me about the people who had come to visit her during her time in prison, and how they helped her turn herself around when she felt the lowest."

Killian waited, judging the emotions running on the young woman's face. "I didn't visit her once while she was in." he said quietly. "I didn't know where she was. I was afraid, I guess." His good hand ran through his hair.

"But that's why I do this now." Emma shook herself out of the trance he had placed her under and looked into the blue eyes that had lost their sparkle, and felt a pang of kinship with this strange man.

"So, Miss Emma," Killian leaned back, resting against the eggshell wall behind him. "What are you in for?" The conspiratal look in his eye made Emma laugh despite herself.

"To put it bluntly, I stole stolen watches." She told him, amusement mulling with plain in her eyes.

"That's fairly ironic." Killian responded.

"Poetic." Emma said shortly, and the two chuckled again. "I got caught in the wrong place at the wrong time." With a smolder she pretended to place a gun in an imaginary holster, looking at the man with a dark glint in her eye. "You don't have any smoke, do you?" She asked sarcastically.

"Have you always had this sense of humor?" he asked her, laughing again. She nodded and smiled. "One of my many specialties."

This new rush of humor surprised her, really, after days spent in the dark and loneliness of the reform center. The man—Killian, smiled endearingly at her, and she felt a stir in the cockles of her recovering heart, like she had found a friend in this dreadful place.

"To be honest, I'm not actually like this a lot." She told him. "After what happened—after years spent in foster homes and then on the streets," she paused, shuffling uncomfortably. "It kills something inside you, you know?"

Killian nodded after a moment, and Emma realized just what she had said. "Don't worry, love." He told her. "We have more in common than you could ever know."

"Are you pregnant, too?" The burst of humor in the moment shocked him, and he burst into laughter again.

"You are quiet the feisty bird, aren't you, Emma?" he said, grinning, before moving to stand. "I try." Emma responded, watching him curiously.

"Where you going?" She called after him, shifting off her bed.

"You're my last stop of the day, Emma." He told her kindly, stopping at the door to look back at her. "I have to go home at some point, don't I?"

The girl stared after, something like disappointment welling in the corners of her face. "Will you be coming back anytime soon, preacher man?" She asked, almost like she was challenging him.

Killian turned to look her in the eye, taking her in. She wasn't much younger than he was, he saw, so torn and lost in the road back to hope. He had planted a seed, he saw, and maybe she had too.

"I think so, love." He heard himself say before moving through the door.

"I'll be back to see you, don't you worry."

_A/N I feel kind of bad writing these short ficlets when I have longer stories to finish, but this one was fun to write! Hope you all like it! Done for the Tumblr theme 'Jail Cell'._


End file.
